Joshua stood bare-chested in the marbled bathroom of his hotel room. The artificially lit mirror highlighted every blackening contour of his battered body.
Michael had been wrong in thinking that his efforts had not had an effect. Few had the ability to disarm a man of Joshua’s skill. Fewer still had the strength to put him on the back foot. Michael had managed both. Joshua was hurt. But what made him special was the ability to ignore pain and injury. They were for later. Now he was dealing with the consequences.
A dark circular bruise prominent on his pale torso hinted at a broken rib; the result of Michael Devlin’s opening body-charge. The pain had been significant but it had not slowed him down. The same was not true of what had followed. Thanks to the protection of his bike leathers the gash that had needed five stitches between his right wrist and forearm was the most visible injury caused by Devlin’s dog, but not the worst.
Using a pair of medical scissors he snipped the remaining length of the stitch. This was not the first time Joshua had put himself back together. He could rival most ER doctors with a needle and medical dressing. It did not need his full attention. Nor would it get it. His mind was on something a whole lot more important.
Doubts had set in from the moment he had failed to kill McGale. Doubts made all the worse by his honest assessment of himself. Joshua could not have expected Dempsey’s appearance in Trafalgar Square. But was it an excuse? Would it have stopped him in the past?
It was not a question Joshua could answer, but he suspected he knew the truth. Especially now, after tonight. The opportunity had been there to tie every loose end up in one go. To pull himself out of this mess. Yet he had managed to kill just one of three unarmed targets. Poor statistics for even the most inexperienced assassin; for him they were nothing less than unacceptable.
With his medical dressing in place, Joshua moved from the bathroom to the bedroom. The feel of the thin carpet replaced the cold stone on the soles of his feet. The relaxing effect of alcohol beckoned.
Joshua removed a single glass tumbler. A bottle of forty-year-old Bruichladdich whisky sat on the nearby table. One of the few tastes he had developed in the course of his lucrative career was for costly liquor. It was to a bottle of one of the world’s most expensive malts that he now turned.
He added the slightest dash of water to a large measure of the Scotch, to open the flavours. Any more – or, God forbid, ice – would be sacrilege. Done, Joshua tapped the glass north, south, east and west before picking it up. Another compulsion, another small price to pay for the advantages his condition had given him.
Lighting a Marlboro, he sat back into the room’s single lounge chair and faced the panoramic sixth-floor window. The pain in his shoulder as it pressed against the stiff back of the chair only reminded him of his failure. Of how the second part of his plan – the murder of Michael Devlin and Sarah Truman – had gone so badly wrong.
Devlin had clearly heard the bike’s engine. But the man was just a lawyer. How could he have possibly recognised what was happening in time to prevent it? And how the hell had he disarmed one of the world’s most highly trained killers?
The fight that followed had put things into some perspective. While Devlin had shown more heart than almost anyone Joshua had ever faced, he had still been outclassed. But still, an amateur had caught Joshua off-guard. Had met him head-on. Disarmed him. Broken his rib. And, worst of all, he had done all this and he had escaped alive. It meant one of two things. Either Joshua was losing his touch or there was more to Michael Devlin than met the eye. Joshua hoped it was the latter, and feared that it was both.
The ringtone had become the bane of his existence.
It rang out at an hour that was much the wrong side of midnight. Far later than Joshua had expected, it interrupted his disturbed sleep. Too groggy to question why Stanton would call so late, he detected an unfamiliar pace in the usually measured speed of voice. It suggested something, but what? Anger? Fear? Excitement?
Whatever it was, the speaker was not in complete control.
‘What the bloody hell happened?’
‘I messed up.’
It was all Joshua could offer. An evening of lonely reflection had lowered his reaction to criticism to the path of least resistance.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry? You’re sorry?’ Even through the electronic interference of the voice modulator, it was clear that Stanton’s pitch was rising. ‘I contracted you on the basis that you are the best at what you do, Sergeant. I put arrangements in place that would have made your target accessible to an adolescent, and yet you have consistently failed in almost every task. Now you’re saying “sorry”?’
‘There’s nothing more I can say,’ replied Joshua. The contrition was genuine. ‘I caused this mess and I should have cleaned it up tonight. Believe me, I tried. I just can’t explain what happened.’
When Stanton spoke again the pace of his voice had levelled. The rage simmering under its surface, though, was more evident than ever.
‘You can’t explain it? You’ve created carnage on the streets of London, by all accounts coming off second-best to a bloody barrister, and all you have to say is that you can’t explain it? Just what the hell am I paying you for?’
Stanton’s words made his fury unmistakable. But they had also made an allegation against Joshua’s hard-earned reputation. That would not stand.
‘You listen to me,’ Joshua began. ‘You might hold the cards but you’re not pinning this all on me. I’ve made mistakes and, yes, this should have gone better. But you’ve played your part too. First with Dempsey and now with Devlin. There’s a lot more to that guy than you’ve told me. If I’d known that, I’d have taken more care. So you can point the finger all you want, but this isn’t all down to me.’
‘What are you talking about?’ For the very first time Stanton seemed to hesitate. ‘I told you everything you needed to know about Devlin. He’s a lawyer, nothing more.’
‘Oh, he’s something more. I don’t know what, but that guy didn’t react like any office boy I’ve ever seen. I suggest you go back and take another look at this one.’
Joshua could not picture his words wiping the smug smile from Stanton’s face. Not when he had no idea what Stanton looked like. But that did not diminish the pleasure he felt from the uncertainty he had detected.
‘I will review it, Sergeant.’
No hesitation this time. Only the clipped metallic voice remained.
‘But you still have a mess to clear up and this is your last chance to do it. I want Michael Devlin and Sarah Truman dealt with, and dealt with quickly. Find them, kill them and erase any trace of what they may have found. Is that understood?’
‘It is,’ Joshua replied. He was already back in his subordinate position. It was a place he found far from comfortable. ‘What’s the timescale?’
‘Minimal.’ The answer was curt but firm. ‘This cannot be allowed to drag on. You will be swift and you will be efficient. The price others will pay if you are not will be a heavy one.’
Joshua felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the threat against his family. It gave him the urge to argue. An urge he suppressed. He had no way to get to Stanton, which left just one thing that could free him from this nightmare.
The silence of Devlin and Truman.
‘I understand. What about the other potential loose ends? Am I to deal with them too?’
‘Which others?’
‘The Lawrence family.’
There was a pause. Stanton seemed to ponder the question. Finally he spoke.
‘Yes, they’re a threat. Devlin spent the entire day with them, so we have to assume that he passed on what he knows. But I’ll deal with them. I wouldn’t want to overburden you, Sergeant.’
Joshua ignored the intended insult.
‘OK. I’ll be packed, ready to go and waiting for your call. And this time I won’t be underestimating anyone.’